Up All Night
by Bottles
Summary: A story of love and pain that takes place between two newsies during the Strike. Chapter 2 up
1. Dreams

Disclaimer:  I do not own Newsies.  If I did the world would be a happier place.  Disney owns them, the lucky bastards.  

**WARNING:** This story contains SLASH.  If you don't like it then don't read this story.  Also Chapter 1 contains very graphic slash so if you don't want to read graphic slash you can skip the dream part which is in italic and just email me or leave a review and I can summarize it for you.  The rest of the chapters are PG rated.  

Notes:  I do not know if some of the phrases I used in this were necessarily in use in 1899 but let's just pretend okay?  

Up All Night

By Bottles

-

He woke up in a cold sweat.  Those dreams had been plaguing him yet again.  Race thought to himself, "I'm never going to be able to sell the papes if these keep up."  Race noticed that he was rather aroused.  Even though it was three o'clock in the morning, Racetrack would not consider his erection a morning wood.  Suddenly like a train it hit him, the memories, the dream.  Even in the sweltering heat of a New York summer night, Race shivered.  

Race was sitting in bed as he debated whether or not he wanted to scale down the fire escape to the menacing streets down below.  He found himself meandering around Manhattan.  There were still 3 hours until Kloppman would begin his daily struggle of arousing the boys.  He absentmindedly reached into his frayed pocket and found a cigar he had purchased earlier from his winnings at the Sheepshead Races.  "Must have been my lucky day," he said out loud.  "Now, where do I want to go?"  His head was suddenly filled with the phrase, _Trovarme__ al ponte.  His mind debated with his body as the memories crept back over him like an early autumn frost.  Once again, Race shivered._

_A nippy breeze chilled Racetrack to the bone, the tattered mismatched combination of cloth--that not many would consider clothes, offering no resistance as he walked.  He was meeting someone; the same person that he had been meeting secretly for the last few weeks.  Jack must have thought he was on drugs going out in the January cold, coming back and not saying a word before passing out into bed.  It wasn't all about sex though.  It was love.  Race was in love with his nighttime companion… and he did not even know his name.  _

_The night was damn cold as Race waited by the __Brooklyn__Bridge__.  His companion was late, maybe he wasn't even going to show.  After what seemed like hours a rejected and broken Race turned around and began to head back to __Manhattan__.  Suddenly he heard the hurried steps of a stranger echoing through the empty expanse of the bridge.  Joy warmed Race's heart as he realized his lover had arrived.  The moon reflected brightly off the then still waters of the _East River__ but, regardless of the lighting, the stranger's face remained hidden in a shroud of darkness.  Race decided he would later learn the identity of his mystery lover, but first he had more important things to do.  __

_The stranger pulled Racetrack into a deep kiss, a kiss that tasted like cheap brandy and old cigarettes, but it didn't matter to Racetrack because he was in love with the scent of this boy…everything about him.  It was the musky smell of river water, sweat, and smoke that drove Racetrack absolutely insane.  He knew that he wanted more of the stranger's attention…his love; he needed it, like an addict needs his daily fix.   Racetrack was addicted, addicted to the love and passion that he felt radiating from this boy.  They spotted some cardboard near a pile of discarded papers on the side of the bridge which they quickly assembled into bedding and a shield to block the harsh river wind whistled across the river, slightly rocking the bridge.  _

_Racetrack stripped him of his suspenders and hastily unbuttoned his shirt, carefully fighting his urge to rip it clear off his love's body.  Race then patiently waited for the stranger to remove him of his tread-bare outfit.  After he was exposed Race looked at his lover, rubbing his hands all over his naked tanned body Racetrack could feel his love's erection grow at Race's every touch.  While Race went to free him of his pants and ease the discomfort that they were causing his partner was running his hands through Race's hair and slowly massaging his way down to Race's stiff penis.  Gently cupping his rigid member he began to slowly move his rough hands up and down Race's shaft.  At the unexpected moment Race lost all concentration and yanked down his partner's pants and threw them against the cardboard piece that was all that stood between them and the increasingly strong gusts of wind.  Race now wanting to return the rapture he was experiencing surprised his companion by lowering his mouth to the others penis and methodically began sucking it.  At first he licked the head and traced a spiral down to the base.  He then blew softly on it causing his lover to gasp out in a mixture of surprise, pleasure, and pain.  Before the other could fully re-act Race placed his warm, wet mouth all over his stiff, cold manhood, shocking him with the sudden warmth.  Race moved up and down his partner's swollen manhood, occasionally grazing the underside with his teeth to get a quick gasp from his lover.  His hands which were rubbing his lover's balls felt them tense up and Race knew that he was about to cum.  He prepared himself as the thick, white fluid shot into his mouth; he swallowed savoring the taste of his handiwork._

_Of course never to be outdone and even before he could regain his breath Race's lover began to run his hands over Racetrack's thighs.  He was on an adrenaline high and wanted to bring Race to his climax so that they could come down together.  He began working the shaft of Race's penis with his hands again while he used his tongue to occupy the other's mouth.  Struggling to remember what he could Race's love moved his mouth down onto Race's stiff, throbbing member while he inserted a finger into Race trying to find his prostate.  He knew he succeeded when Race arched his back and moaned in sudden and extreme pleasure, the moans taken away by the wind squalls and drowning out by the sound of the __East River__ ferociously crashing below the two boys.  The orgasm Race had was like nothing ever experienced and when he had finally finished filling his love's mouth full of his sweetly sour seed the collapsed together, just holding on.  _

_Race raced over and grabbed a cigar from his discarded pants and waited for his lover to light his own cigarette before passing the matches to Race.  The heavy smell of sex clung to the now calm air as the two boys could feel their heartbeats returning to normal.  Race carefully turned over to face his lover's still unknown face and asked.  "Who are you?  Will you tell me your name?"  To that his lover simply replied, "you know it, you have know it all along, and when you realize it—I'll be waiting."  _

And that's where Racetrack always woke up.  The phrase, _Trovarme__ al ponte, ran through his mind yet again.  His feet took control and Race began to walk to the Brooklyn Bridge.  Little did he know, he wasn't the only one up late that night.  _

Thanks:  Thanks to my betas Dishrags and OMD.  Without you guys I could never get this done!

Review!  More to come.


	2. Memories

Up All Night

By: Bottles

Everyone was asleep in the Brooklyn Lodging House, everyone that is, except Spot Conlon.  Many would assume that the infamous Brooklyn leader spent his nights romanticizing women, when he wasn't playing cards, drinking, or fighting. That used to be true but lately Spot spent his nights in the tiny room he set up for himself— alone.  His constant companion only numerous bottles of cheap liquor stolen from bars, drunks, or good stuff occasionally pocketed from the hoity-toity businessmen.  Spot knew the cause of his insomnia.  He was lonely; of course he would never let that slip.  Spot constantly paraded around girl after girl.  The girls were beautiful, but every time he took them to bed Spot found that he could never focus solely on them.  His mind was always other places and his heart never in it.  True he enjoyed the please that came with fucking a girl, but that's all it was to him – fucking.  He had never felt love, passion, and longing.  Usually Spot could usually push all these lonely feelings aside but lately they seemed to be coming stronger than ever before.  

He took the final swig from some earlier pocketed brandy and flung the empty flask unto his bed.  His comforter, if one could call it that, was probably the ugliest blanket on the planet but Spot cherished the blanket much.  He remembered when he first got it.  

_Spot became leader in the middle of one of __New York__'s harshest winters at the young age of thirteen.  He spent many nights shivering in the drafty room which came with leadership.  He missed the small warmth from body heat that the bunkroom accumulated.  He would not sleep out there though; he was Spot Conlon and he had a reputation to build.  _

_One bitter night Spot was suddenly struck with an idea.  He took his collection of outgrown clothes and scampered down the fire escape.  Next he sprinted to the closest church.  The excitement of his genius idea was beginning to fade and realization crept in, would the nuns really help?  Spot, never one to back down from a challenge, entered the church doors.  He explained to the nuns that he desired a blanket and requested if they could piece one together from old clothes he had saved from his childhood.  _

Spot came out of his daydream and gazed at the worn blanket the nuns created for him.  It was mostly made up of thin brown, gray, and dingy white patches.  However, there was the occasional thick royal blue.  He thought of the sweater and the meeting that would later be of the most important of Spot's young life.  

_Seven year-old Patrick Conlon was huddled in a __Manhattan__ alley.  Two weeks earlier his parents had left with his sister, promising to return to their meager _tenement apartment before nightfall.  A week later the landlord found Patrick sitting in his bed, waiting, waiting for parents that would never return.  In the next few hours Patrick found himself out on the streets with only the short-___sleeved shirt and pair of pants he had on.  The rest of the family's possessions were confiscated to pay for rent.  The week had been awful for Patrick.  It was nearing October and the temperature was quickly dropping.  _

_Anthony Higgins was running home as fast as he could.  He had snuck out of his family's small mansion to explore the city.  Just because he was seven didn't mean he was too young to step outside of the city walls.  As he ran by an alley on __2nd Street__ he couldn't help but hear the soft cries coming from behind a cardboard box.  Upon further investigation he saw a small boy with striking blue-grey eyes and dirty blond hair.  He noticed that the boy looked filthy and as though he had not eaten in days.  _

_"Hello," young Anthony called out, "what is your name?  Are you okay?"_

_"I'se fine."__  The boy shouted at Anthony before coming out from his shelter. Patrick looked at Anthony.  He was dressed in expensive garments and carried in his arms a royal blue sweater.  _

_"Well you look rather cold to me.  Here take this."  Anthony handed the shivering Patrick the sweater and Patrick looked at it with abhorrence.  He really wanted the sweater.  It was thick and he knew that it would keep him warm, especially if his attempts to find lodging were going to continue to be futile.  However, he was not one to take charity.  _

_"What's dis, some kinda charity sweater?  I'se don't need your help rich kid.  Patrick Conlon can take care o' hisself."_

_Anthony stared at the grubby boy with a look of admiration.  He couldn't believe that this boy would rather shiver than take the sweater that he had more than enough of at his home.  Anthony admired him more than Patrick would know, but Anthony's pride and smart mouth always got in the way.  _

_"Patrick," he exclaimed, "that's a name for big boys.  You look more like a dirty little spot on the ground."_

_Patrick leaped up and got into Anthony's face.  "What did ya call me?"_

_"Calm down, Spot," said Anthony, "Let's call it a nickname.  You can call me Tony.  You look hungry Spot.  Do you want to come back to my place and have some dinner?"_

_Spot was absolutely stunned.  Right now he should be beating this rich bastard into a bloody pulp for insulting him.  Then again, never had a hoity-toity looked his way before, not to mention offer him some food.  He was about to say no, but his stomach rumbled in protest.  Now was not a time to be stubborn.  _

_"Sure."_

_And with that the two boys ran quickly to the Higgins mansion.  A friendship had been made that would be tested and remain rock solid through it all, well almost.  _

Spot once again broke his is trance.  He kept that sweater too.  The charity sweater he always called it, but it helped him many nights.  Tony, better known as Racetrack, would let Spot in late at night to sleep in the warmth of his room.  However, if Tony was not near the balcony to let him in Spot would usually spend the nights asleep on the streets or huddled up at the Brooklyn Lodging House warmed by the gift that he treasured.  Somehow the memories of meeting Race and their times together would always disrupt Spot's every moment.  He would never tell Stone, his second in command, but Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins was Spot's best friend.  The Manhattan boys never knew it either.  Spot Conlon doesn't have friends.  He has allies and enemies.  Spot found his hand resting on the key around his neck.  Many stories floated around the streets of New York about the key he wore.  Some said it was to treasure that he had stolen from robbers.  Other said that it was to a place where he kept those who insulted him locked up.    He never told though, only Race knew and that's because it was the key to his balcony.  

_"Spot?"__  Race's now nine year old voice called into the alley where they first met two years ago.  "Why did you run away like that?"  _

_Spot looked over from where he was practicing shooting bottles with his sling shot.  "You know your old man wouldn't be please if he saw me dere.  He doesn't take kindly to street trash in his fancy house."  _

_"Well I think you have worn out that charity sweater," Tony smiled, "That's why I am giving you this."  Tony handed Spot a key on a string.  "It opens the door on my balcony.  That way you can get in to sleep when it's cold."_

_Spot was not easily surprised.  Even at the young age of nine he was already well known in the streets.  Spot Conlon they called him.  He was a legend in the making. One of the best shooters and fighters on the streets; Spot could even almost out sell Sly, leader of the _Brooklyn___ newsies.  He had a promising life ahead of him.  But he was standing there, mouth wide open, amazed that Tony would do that.  _

_"Now you don't have to worry about my father anymore and you always have a good, warm place to sleep.  After all, you're my best friend Spot."_

_"T'anks Tony.__  I really appreciate this," Spot gave his now famous smirk, "and youse me best friend too.  Just don't be sayin' dat too loud.  Brooklyn's got boidies everywhere and if I am gonna be King o' Brooklyn someday they gotta think dat I sleep on the alleys with no friends, not some hoity-toity mansion."_

_"Whatever Spotty," said Tony, knowing he was the only one that could get away with talking like that to Spot Conlon.  With a playful shove he tripped Spot and started running back to the mansion.  _

_Spot stood there, after regaining his balance, fingering the key before he took after Tony.  "I'll get you Tony Higgins!"_

Spot couldn't stand being in the stuffy lodging house anymore.  Feeling the effects of the alcohol he has just drunk, Spot tried to quietly stumble out the lodging house door.  He was not quiet enough, Stone whispered to him, "Where ya goin' Spot?"  To which Spot replied in a tone that would stop all further questions, "ta think, Stone, go back ta sleep.  We might have a big day ahead of us."  

Stone looked one last time as the partially drunken leader stumbled out the door.  Jack Kelly, the Manhattan leader had come by earlier to ask for help on a strike his newsies were starting against Pulitzer and The World.  Word had it that the Crips had been hired to break up any protest that Jack was planning for the following day.  Stone just rolled over and hoped that Spot would decide to help the Manhattan newsies; he had been itching for a fight lately.  

Spot walked aimlessly down the docks passing a homeless man next to a lit barrel.  It wasn't cold in the New York summer, but the breeze off the river was just enough to give a good chill.  Captivated by the dancing flames Spot was reminded of another fateful fire.  

_Spot was sitting in the bunkroom of the __Manhattan__ Lodging House when he found out.  He had gone to __Manhattan__ to visit Tony, but stopped to see the __Manhattan__ newsies and work on building up his reputation by beating them at cards and threatening to soak a few that disagreed with him.  Suddenly Kid Blink and Mush ran in, "guys," they exclaimed, "gonna be a good 'eadline.  Some hoity-toity mansion ova on __2nd street__ is on fire."  Spot went pale.  Without a word he calmly grabbed his sling shot and walked out of the door before breaking into a sprint.  Horror invaded him as he arrived at his destination to see the Higgins mansion in burnt shards.  Tony was nowhere in sight.  Then he heard the words that made his heart stop cold, "No survivors."  _

_Hysterical and frenzied Spot walked back down __2nd Street__.  As he passed the alley where Tony had saved him he heard a whimper and then his name.  Spot turned around to see a smutty, blackened Tony looking at him with tears in his eyes.  Not really sure what to do Spot walked over to him and placed his hand on his shoulder.  Out of nowhere Tony pulled Spot down into a hug and after checking for spies Spot held his friend while he sobbed over the loss of his family, his possessions, his life even.  _

_"What do I do now Spot?" Tony asked.  _

_"Well you can come back ta __Brooklyn__ wit me.  Live in the Lodging House.  It's nothin' like your home but it's the best I can do."_

_"So, I will get to be there when you become King O' __Brooklyn__?"_

_Spot smirked, "Tony, buddy, you can be me right hand man."_

_"Alright Spot.__  Thanks."  _

Spot smiled.  Quickly he caught himself and replaced it with a scowl.  Turning around he looked at the Brooklyn Lodging House.  He certainly was the King of Brooklyn.  But it didn't come without pain.  Another day came to mind, not so far after the one he had just remembered.  

_Tony was having a hard time dealing with __Brooklyn__.  First of all, he wasn't over the fire that claimed the lives of all those he loved and all he knew.  He went by Ricket now.  Spot told him that he had to leave his old life behind.  It was something he was trying to do, but Spot wouldn't realize that he needed some help.  He appreciated Spot taking him in, but what Tony really needed was a good friend—not the arrogant, tough guy that Spot acted like when he was in __Brooklyn__.  _

_"Whatcha doin' over der, Richie," questioned Ice.    
Tony looked up to see the large __Brooklyn_ newsies and several of his friends coming his way.  Tony knew that Ice disliked him because of his closeness with Spot.  Ice  was planning on being Spot's right hand man when Spot gained power and he was not going to let some rich kid come in a take that away from him.  __

_"My name is Ricket," was all that Tony could reply before Brash kicked him hard in the stomach.  _

_"Comeon Richie let's fight.  You think youse so great comin' in here wit Spot but he don't care about you.  Youse just anuddah member of his fan club.  Youse just some rich kid who can't even talk like a newsies," declared Ice while planning another attack on the small boy.  _

_Tony was enraged.  How could he say that Spot didn't care about him.  In a moment of rage Tony cried out, "Spot cares about me.  He is my best friend and I am his best friend.  Go ask him and you will see."_

_Ice just stared at Tony before huffing off to locate Spot and question him.  Tony, being curious to see Ice's face when Spot announced their friendship hobbled over to follow Ice and his friends.  He was walking slow due to the pain in his stomach and only caught Spot's last statement. _

_"Spot Conlon doesn't have any friends."_

_Just as the words left Spot's mouth he looked up to see the face of Tony, it was a face that radiated betrayal, confusion, and sadness.  Before Spot could react, Tony raced out the door and into the streets of _Brooklyn___.  Tony continued on to sprint across the __Brooklyn__Bridge__.  He stopped and considered just jumping into the _East River__.  After all he had truly lost everything.  He stared meaningfully and thought about his life.  At the young age of only twelve he had lost everything.  His comfortable lifestyle, his parents, his siblings, and now even his best and only friend had abandoned him.   Taking a step off the railing Tony looked to his right and saw ___Brooklyn_—a place where he was not wanted.  He then looked to his left towards Manhattan— true it was where his family's exquisite home just a black pile of ash, but it was also where he had met Spot and where the two boys had enjoyed themselves before Spot's ego and reputation tore their friendship apart.  With that comfort Ricket—scratch that—Racetrack Higgins continued to cross the __Brooklyn___Bridge__ to make a new life in __Manhattan__, free of _Brooklyn___ and their rough, insulting ways.  _

Spot's face was now just one large glare.  The memories of his betrayal to Racetrack still bothered him immensely.  He wanted to talk to Race, to explain everything.  Had he known Racetrack was there he might reacted to the question differently.  "Nah," he thought, "wouldah said da same thing."  He knew it was true.  He was always letting his ego and reputation act before his rational thinking had a chance to kick in.  Even after the three years of not seeing him, Spot still longed for Racetrack's companionship.  True, he knew everything that happened to him, but that was just because Spot had spies out there checking up on Racetrack.  

Angry at himself Spot began walking towards the bridge.  It wasn't the first time he began to walk towards Manhattan to apologize, but all the previous ones ended with him turning around halfway down the Brooklyn Bridge.  He didn't know if he was going to make it or not but Spot knew that he at least had to try.  

AN: Finally I got this chapter up.  I have a companion to this chapter called Must Be from Brooklyn which is basically the same memories but from Racetrack's point of view.  So if you liked this, go check that out!  Please review!


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